Sister Act in Moscow

The gale force winds and heavy rain the day before were in no way indicative of how bright, dry and sunny it would be the next. As such, it was impossible to resist an invitation for a walk in the pleasant, warm weather. The forecast has predicted a colder winter than usual this year, compelling us Moscow-dwellers to make the most of the few possible outdoor city activities before it actually hits.

Along the Garden Ring, I walked from Sretensky Bulevar metro station, past the monuments to Alexander Griboyedov and Nadezhda Krupskaya, and finally to the church within the convent walls where I was to experience for the first time an all-female small choir sing at the opening of Saturday evening mass. Alexander Griboyedov was a 19^th century playwright and diplomat, whereas Nadezhda Krupskaya was no other than the wife of Vladimir Ilych Lenin, a revolutionary, no surprise there, and a writer. That section of the pedestrian walk was being remodeled, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda was getting a face lift as well, so I couldn’t get close enough.

There seemed to be a great amount of bronze in the area. The third statue I saw within that short walking distance was not of a person, but a goat. It was hanging on the wall over the door outside a Czech beer bar called “kozyol”, meaning billy-goat - looking down, I suppose, at the drinkers. It was an interesting sight right opposite the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin. A short walk further along the Garden Walk brought me to an imposing building on my left. It had the customary thick walls of the monasteries I’d seen all over the city, but differed in color. It was red. The domes within the walls confirmed it would be a church, and further investigation revealed it to be Nativity Monastery. It is said to have been founded in 1380, and is one of Moscow’s oldest monasteries.

I donned a headscarf at the entrance as is customary, and ventured in, surprised to see a uniformed security officer on the premises. I had never encountered one during any of my visits to other religious institutions in Russia. I walked past him to look around and was welcomed by beautifully manicured lawns and well-tended flower gardens. The colorful flowers looked healthy in their beds and invited to be picked, but I resisted the urge. It was quiet. Visitors and church-goers walked silently or spoke undertone. It seemed difficult to believe I was in the heart of a big city with a population of about 12 million.

The comforting silence was broken by the sound of bells chiming in the imposing bell tower under which you had to walk to enter the monastery grounds. It was painted in a pastel yellow. Unlike the gongs signaling the time of day in churches elsewhere, the sound of church bells ringing in Russia is always a pleasant tune. A friend once said she liked to hear them "rocking the bells”. It wasn't unlike the feeling you would get in a gospel church. I waited till the ringing was over before I made my way into the church on the second floor.

My initial intention was just to take a look around, admire the interior architecture and decoration, possibly try to steal a picture, enjoy the atmosphere and leave. The iconostasis was white and gold. I’d been used to seeing a darker shade of wood. Was it because it was a convent? The paintings of all the religious figures were in white and gold frames, the walls were a pale blue covered in frescoes, and for the first time I saw nuns. In an elevated headdress, they were draped in long, black, floating habits. As they hastily gathered, their robes swish-swishing, I realized I had come just in time to witness the beginning of a liturgy; happy to have the experience.

Led by one of the nuns, the small choir, made up of nuns and secular ladies in headscarves and long skirts, sang melodiously. Her hands moved gracefully and sharply in the air as she signaled the pitches and dips and rounded it all up. Full of rhythm though the song was, it was not as daring as the ones Whoopi Goldberg’s character in Sister Act had her fellow sisters bobbing their heads, tapping their feet and eventually dancing to. Nonetheless, I could not help but reminisce about the American comedy set in a convent in New York as the singing filled the church creating an uplifting atmosphere.

After the first hymn was over, the priest came out with his incense burner from behind the iconostasis, a purple and silver-threaded robe over his black cassock, his beard nicely kempt and his hair held in a neat pony tail. A path was opened from him to walk through and all bowed to receive his blessing as he swung the incense burner in each person’s direction – an act of purification, I presumed. I was one of them and followed their example, getting a whiff of the incense. His deed done, he returned to where he had emerged from behind the iconostasis. Invisible, but audible, he called out phrases according to the ritual, and these were responded to by the choir in song, as the small congregation on their feet made the sign of the cross over and over again, bowed and touched the floor. The solemnity of the place and the ritual was very touching. The 70 years of repression and persecution of those who dared believe flashed through my mind and I applauded their faith. After a few minutes partaking in this service, I mouthed a few phrases in thanks and left.

I walked around on the peaceful monastery grounds again. There were three churches altogether. The main one I visited open to the public, and two others shut to the public – possibly undergoing restoration. A long row of doors and window were probably the monks' and nuns' cells. The security guard was carefully watching for any trespassers, stifling my urge to sneak beyond the barriers. I had enjoyed my visit and was happy to have made this discovery on my walk. As I made my way out of the gate, I looked back and made a promise to myself to come back for another visit.

I reached Trubnaya Square continuing my walk along the Garden Ring shortly after leaving the monastery. In fact, from Trubnaya Square with its column commemorating all the Russian soldiers fallen in the line of duty, you could see the imposing red fortress-like building on a promontory, with the majestic domes and golden orthodox crosses. Back at the square, at the base of the column is an engraving of another replica of the Pieta. It seems to me that this Italian sculpture by Michelangelo is the most copied piece of art - I have seen replicas even in India. It also seemed to be a convenient spot for people to advertise their wares as the ground was covered with several colorful ones.

A few meters away was the Moscow modern theater staging “Snow”, and not far from this appeared an interesting discovery - an amphitheater-like structure, with an elevated stage in the open air with three levels of bleachers. I could only assume that amateur plays would be staged there in good weather; there not being any signs anywhere to indicate what it was. I took a seat on the hard, cold, middle level bleachers to get a feel of what it was like, but could not conjure any images. I wouldn’t expect them to be staging Shakespeare. Russian literature has more than enough plays of its own without having to resort to the English bard to liven up the city.

The Garden Ring seemed to have a lot of interesting cultural attractions. Several people wielding cameras, aiming and clicking away drew my attention to look the direction of the object they were all concentrating on. Quite easy to miss is the façade of Number 4 Krapivensky Pereulok on a small side street. An Art Nouveau building sporting brown, white and black bricks and Arabesque arches worth a picture. I could see other churches in the horizon, but had settled for a short walk and chose to move on. Passing a Ukranian restaurant along the way, a host offered free copies of the restaurant publication. The cover I soon realized was graced by a full-size picture and signature of Steven Seagal, as well as short note thanking the restaurant for the best food he’d enjoyed. He certainly looked like he enjoyed his food, and not only at this Ukranian restarant - Korchma.

 The walk was over for that day. Fortunate to live in Moscow, I could leave the rest of the route for another time, so I joined two colleagues at a French coffee shop with the best macaroons ever. I had an assortment of macaroons and some red fruit tea to celebrate a great day.

Pechatniki - a quiet suburb in Moscow

Phoebe Taplin, writing in the Moscow News, an independent online newspaper, calls those who venture towards the end of the light-green line on the Moscow metro “intrepid explorers”. I would like to consider myself one of those intrepid explorers, although I visited and explored the area in the south-eastern suburbs after I’d moved out to live in another part of Moscow.

I first arrived in the Pechatniki district from Domodedovo airport on a January 6^th. I had been expecting the weather to be mercilessly cold, and difficult to deal with as I’d flown in from Abu Dhabi, but I was very comfortable in my protective gear. The ground everywhere was covered in snow and ice. Despite the very low temperatures and dark skies, children and their parents were having fun in the park in front of the building I was to move into. I could see a make-shift ski slope in the playground. Some took to tobogganing. Others were actually on skis and holding poles.

From my fifth floor apartment, I had the view of a school, a hospital, and slightly further ahead, a white church building with black gables and gold trimmings. I later found out that the church was actually a monument that had been built on the site of a terrorist-bombed building which killed scores of families in 1999. The bombs had been detonated at midnight when most were very likely to be sleeping. On the way home one evening, an African taxi driver narrated to me in detail the order of events as he had experienced it, living not too far from the devastating occurrence at the time.  I took in that view every morning, as I made and had breakfast before I set out, and gave a thought to the victims.

What with the freezing weather which lasted till May, and the time I needed to adjust to my new job and new host city, exploring the neighborhood was the last thing on my mind.  As the weather got warmer, I made my first attempt and set out for the Nikolo-Perervinsky Monastery I’d heard of. It was a nice walk there, but it was closed, so I enjoyed a walk along the river instead. Seeing people in the park barbecuing, riding bikes, running around, listening and dancing to music, lying on the grass, just enjoying the pleasant atmosphere was a very refreshing sight. It had taken a long time for all those layers to come off, and I was enjoying the effect of the nice weather as well. However, before I could go on more walks to explore the area where I lived, I had moved out to another apartment, and so it was that when I came back to Pechatniki to visit the monastery I wanted to view from the inside, it was as an “outsider”.

I was greeted by the familiar convenience stores in Guryanova Street just outside the metro station, where languages other than Russian were mostly heard. These stores were interspersed with rotisserie chicken and shwarma stands manned by Uzbeks, Tajiks and nationals of some of the countries of the former Soviet Union; donning chef’s hats, sharpening their long knives ready for business as they painstakingly avoided making eye contact with me or stared blatantly – there was no middle ground. I reminisced about my way home from the metro after work when I’d get some chicken, or some fruit, depending on what I needed. They always wished me “priyatnovo apetita” and I thanked them for wishing me an enjoyable meal. They saw me walk by every day and I interacted with them more often than not, but the reaction was always the same.  

This time though, I wasn’t there for grilled chicken or fruit, so I walked on past the stores, minding my own business. I crossed the road and for the first time ventured into a small shopping center I had passed by every day for several months but had never entered. I found a clothes shop selling coats at affordable prices; something unusual in Moscow and very appropriate for the upcoming season. I also walked around a drugstore where I purchased a few items. I was discovering Pechatniki.

The shopping done, I set off for my intended destination along Shosseynaya Street. It was a nice walk in the cool streets. Although sunny, the clouds in the horizon were menacing rain. I figured that I could be there and done before the downpour started. Soon enough, the blue domes of the monastery loomed into sight on a busy single-carriage road at a traffic light. It was Sunday and the church was open for service. A few amputees in wheel chairs were sitting a few steps away from the gates whose hinges were built into the fortified walls typical of the monasteries I’ve seen in Russia. On the right hand-side as I walked in, was a building housing the gift shop, icons, and I presumed the monks’ cells. Straight ahead is the statue of what I thought would be a representative of the Russian Orthodox Church. I took in the sight on the church grounds in sunlight and eventually made my way inside.

It was warm. Hundreds of candles could be seen burning, lit by loved ones for the departed and for those in need. Mass was being said, the congregation made signs of the cross when prompted to, mothers were carrying children tired of standing as is customary in the Russian Orthodox Church. A few young monks in black cassocks were gracefully chanting what sounded to me like Gregorian music.The head priest with his long shoulder-length blond hair and carefully trimmed beard, head crowned in a miter and colorful robes over his cassock, was reading the gospel in a powerful voice. I only understood snippets, but enjoyed the solemn atmosphere.

After a few minutes, I joined a queue requesting prayers. My request was for a sick friend of mine undergoing treatment for a serious illness. I wanted her to get well, for herself, for her family and so that we could sit, chat and laugh as we used to. Although I’m not Russian Orthodox, I have prayed in mosques, in Buddhist and Hindu temples, as well as other places not conducive to prayer. I thought to myself, what difference does it make? Every little bit counts. Then it was my turn. The woman looked strangely at me, wondering how she would communicate with this person. I snapped out of my reverie of visits to different places of worship and addressed her in Russian, making my request. I gave her the piece of paper I’d written my friend’s name on and what I wanted the prayer for.

“Are you Catholic or Orthodox?” she asked me kindly.

“Catholic” I answered, wondering why I could only be either in her eyes.

She looked at the paper, back at me and asked me to wait a minute. She left her post and ran through the crowd of worshippers to the altar to confer with the one in charge, I speculated. After a few minutes of absence, forcing every one behind me to wait and wonder what was happening, she returned with a smile. She said it would be alright, however, since I was not Orthodox, I would have to pay ten rubles. I happily forked out the amount and added some for candles I wanted to light. My prayer request accepted, clutching my candles, I went off happily to light them. I stood in the church a little longer, admiring the architecture, the frescoes and the iconostasis before turning around and walking out. The sermon was still going on.

Outside, I took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air, looked up at the sky and saw the dark clouds getting closer as the faint sunlight was disappearing. It was time to start walking back. A short tour of the grounds again, a quick look in the gift shop and back onto Shosseynaya to the metro. There was an open market close to the metro which I had been to previously when I lived there, and fancied looking at the fresh produce again – vegetables, fruit, honey, pickles, nuts. It was a pleasant stroll and the atmosphere in the market was noisy, chatty, lively with different whiffs from different stands. Some very pleasant, others not so pleasant.  All of a sudden my adventure was over. It was time for me to get back on the metro and head back home.

Unlike some of the very elaborately decorated metro stations in Moscow, Pechatniki is nothing to write home about; brown rectangular pillars on the platform on both sides as in a central nave in a cathedral. It was built in 1995 according to the plaque and the floor is kept clean. Just before I descended underground and was welcomed by the loud screeching of the metal wheels on rails, I felt I was being asked when I would return. “Soon”, I answered, “before the first snowfall”. The forecast says the first part of this winter in Moscow is going to be colder than usual. I am bracing myself for it. That will be the best time for museum visits. 

Expat Life

It is inevitable, whenever a group of expatriates get together, no matter how hard they try, that the conversation does not focus on their woes about living in their host country – communication difficulties due to language barriers, bad service in shops and restaurants, the major differences between how things are done back home and how their done where they currently live, the weather, the food, most importantly the situation at work, which is why they are here, and every other possible inconvenience they may have encountered.

Everyone has an interesting anecdote to tell with vivid descriptive details which keep the gathering lively as the drinks are flowing, glasses and jugs are repeatedly clinked at every new round, toasts are made to new resolutions and the new buzzword for the week is voiced in unison and laughter to share this very special inside joke. Those outside the circle need an explanation for this new phrase which they would add to their personal dictionary and may or may never use. Everyone is having a good time laughing at someone else’s sorrows and for a few hours we all forget that these same situations had us fuming, screaming, cursing, threatening to kill whoever was at the source of the trouble. For the duration of the get-together, as in confession, our sorrows, anger, anxiety, frustration and overall tension are washed away with the drinks and the revelations until we go back to our routines.

The mood was festive at “Torro Grill” in Pervaya Dubrovskaya Street where we had all met to celebrate the birthdays of two colleagues – Mike and Laura, secondary and primary teacher respectively. Several tables had been put together for us at a non-smoking back room to form an L-shape in order to accommodate about twenty people. As is usually the case, people sitting together just hold conversations in their little group till a roar of laughter has everyone else with an enquiring look facing the direction it came from hoping to be made privy to the cause of such hilarity. The story is repeated loudly to be shared with all at the insistence of those who feel left out and finally everyone joins in the merrymaking.

Except for a few people in the group, all the rest were new staff who had been in Moscow for barely a month. Most were still experiencing cultural shock, but doing their best to settle in. One had actually just arrived two days earlier and not settled in yet. It was our first big social group meeting and a great opportunity for all, as we hardly said more than a few words of greetings to one another when we met in the hallways on our way to class. We would all finally have the opportunity to unload what had been bothering us.

Work, however minimally mentioned, was bound to be discussed. There was a story about the general director telling teachers who had gone to request to be paid, to manage their money better.  “How insulting is that!” I exclaimed. “And what did you say back to him?” I asked. The teacher in question said she informed him they had not been paid, therefore there was nothing to be managed or mismanaged. The fact that he only responded with a blank stare sparked a whole range of opinions about him, voiced out freely in his absence. There were stories about this same general director’s lack of understanding of curriculum-based issues, and suggestions offered about how to deal with it, or harsh criticism about these shortcomings.  I was part of the latter. In the course of these discussions, a gentleman who had been dining at another table approached ours. He had heard American accents and wanted to make sure we were all registered to vote. He offered explanations on how to get our absentee ballots, how to mail it and the whole procedure. He was very friendly and I'm hoping to meet him at the party he said he would be throwing. His interruption was welcome as it steered us away from the topic of work on to other subjects for a while.

The waitress could not look more irritated when she had to take our order. You would think we had crashed at her house and demanded she cook for us. I ordered an ostrich burger on the menu to be adventurous, only to be rebuked that this particular restaurant didn’t serve this meal, although no one had taken the trouble to remove it from the menu. I finally ordered grilled salmon, which was served burned on one side, and steak fries. I haven’t been disciplined about my resolution to stay away from white carbs and thoroughly enjoyed them, and even had another serving. It was a special occasion, after all. The orders took long enough to arrive to irritate most people by the time it finally did.

While we waited, different people shared their horror stories. There was one about the teacher who had arrived at 3 am and was taken into a sparsely-furnished apartment with only a bed, mattress and a couch. She had to sleep in her coat and go to work the next morning, practically a few hours later, without a shower since there were no towels, soap or shower gel to use. She had assumed she would be in a hotel for a few days which would give her time to prepare for her new living arrangements. What a rude awakening! By the end of her first week, she was off sick for two days from the lack of rest, jet lag and difficulty adjusting at such speed, basically from shock.

Then there was the one that had us all in stitches. It was about paying utility bills and Murphy’s Law. The first few months I lived in Moscow, I was lucky enough to have someone take care of it for me, and even then I found it complicated. It was complicated enough that I didn’t want to hear the intricacies of it anymore after it had been explained to me the first time. I just wanted to be told how much I owed and to fork out the money. The bill is sent to you but the amount to be paid is not clear. Ildar, a math teacher at our school, helped me take care of it. He would come to my house once a month when the bill arrived, and would spend no less than half an hour on this task. I always found it baffling. I have since moved to another place where it is included in my rent so I have been spared this torture.

The first time he came, he asked me for a device I still haven’t found a name for. When he asked me for it, his words were “do you have that thing for the bathroom?” The thing for the bathroom could be anyone’s guess. He then said that there was supposed to be something that you used to open something in the bathroom, in exactly these words. I remembered that when I first moved into the apartment, I found a plastic, orange, plunger-looking device with a handle where you would fit your knuckles. Not knowing what it was, I moved it aside carefully as I arranged my toiletries. Fortunately, I remembered exactly where it had placed it and brought it to him asking if that was what he was looking for. His face lit up as he realized his visit had not been in vain.

I handed it over to him and he headed to the bathroom where he proceeded to remove a tile from the wall. I looked at him, bemused, as he proceeded to detach the tile under which the water meter miraculously appeared. I chose not to ask how he knew which tile to detach since all along, that tile did not look detachable to me. With a flashlight, he read and noted the reading, carefully putting the tile back. He then went to the electricity meter and repeated the procedure. After that he sat at my kitchen table fiddling with numbers for about fifteen minutes. I had to ask what was taking so long. He explained to me that there were different rates for different times of day which had to be computed accordingly, then added and finally determining the total amount to be paid. Being winter, there were heater bills, snowplowing bills, the building janitorial bills, elevator maintenance bills, all in the one bill. I left him to it and when he was done he conveyed the message to me. He told me how much I owed and then offered to pay for it which was very kind of him. However, he also said he need an equivalent of about ten dollars because you were charged money for paying bills. I chose not to argue although I didn’t understand the concept. I handed over the money and silently wondered about this policy of being charged money to pay a bill.

    

This year however, the number of international teachers has increased dramatically and the poor man is unable to handle all these matters in addition to his teaching job, so he has explained the procedure to the teachers to do it themselves. Mike, who had his first bill-paying experience exactly the day he turned forty regaled us with his nightmare. He narrated his grief about trying to pay his utility bills in full detail – the amount of time invested in calculating the different items, his several attempts at trying to pay the bill online, which he’d be shown how to do in order to save him the inconvenience of going to the bank, queuing and needing to speak Russian to complete the transaction.

After numerous attempts in vain to pay it online, he asked a Russian-speaking colleague for help. Lexi, who is Russian and knows the procedure, was also unable to carry out the transaction online. The only option left was to physically go to the bank to deal with it. Mike found out to his horror that, not only had his landlord chosen the only utilities company which did not accept online payment, as the system required a ten-digit code for the transaction and this company lacked this code, but that he would have to go to the bank every month for this transaction. The worst part was that when he handed the receipt and money over for the bill, after standing in line for more than half an hour, he was directed to another window where he had to pay some money to be given a receipt which would then enable him to pay the bill. And to add insult to injury, he was dealing with this lengthy, complicated situation when he was ill, running a temperature, feeling like he was at death’s door and couldn’t speak any Russian.

   

Eventually, the bill did get paid and he went home to bed trying not to anticipate the same ordeal month after month so long as he lived in the same apartment in Moscow. That called for some hilarity as glasses and jugs were noisily clinked and his heroism in bill-paying in Russia was toasted to. By the time his story ended, our meals had arrived and the conversation changed to the quality and taste of the food as people compared notes on what they’d been served and how it differed or not to what is was like back home. The arrival of the meal and its consequent enjoyment seemed to bring a close to the complaint session, as almost everyone had managed to release their bottled-up frustrations by then. It was washed down with more drinks, and shortly afterwards we were all ready to leave.

Most people, I presumed, would have a lazy Sunday in preparation for the coming week of new experiences, in a new job, in a new country. I, however, had planned a trip to the Monastery in Petchatniki, the neighborhood where I first lived when arrived in Moscow. On my first visit there, it was closed, so I couldn't get in. I was hoping that since it was Sunday this time, it would be open for mass. I would go in to take the opportunity to light a few candles and be thankful. A colleague chose to join me when I mentioned it.

Moscow Celebrates

Every evening over the last week, I’d heard the loud explosions outside indicative of fireworks. I had also heard colleagues living in different parts of the city talking about it at work and praising the spectacle. Most had not needed to leave their homes to enjoy the view; they had just gone to look out the window after they'd heard the noise, saw the fireworks and enjoyed it from indoors. Everyone I’d heard talking about it was quite impressed and all agreed that it was very short, lasted just a few minutes, but very beautiful.

One particular night, the sound was very close to my house, but already curled up in bed with the low temperatures we’d been experiencing, I did not feel like wrapping myself up in heavy layers to go and stand at the window with the hope of seeing a show. The next day, however, I was lucky. Just as I left my tango practice class in Malaya Ordinka on my way home, I walked right into it. First I heard a loud explosive noise, then I sensed the sparkles and raised my head to be regaled with a great display of colors bursting into the dark sky – reds, greens, yellows, arches, sparkles, small explosions, gigantic ones, all with their accompanying “boom”, “boom”, “boom”. I stayed rooted to the ground together with a few others who felt it worth stopping for, my head raised, enjoying it till the end; rather sad when it all ended. Another military marching band concert had just come to an end.

Moscow was in full festive mode. The headlines on the front page of the Friday edition of the daily Metro publication dated August 31^st read “Happy Birthday, beloved city! J. The city had turned 865 and was celebrating in full pomp. Several cultural activities had been organized over the weekend around the city to toast to this very special occasion, and the program details were mapped out on pages 16 and 17 for all those interested. There was a variety of activities – concerts, dances, food stations, theater plays … and that was just one event!

Moscow’s birthday is not the only event celebrated in September. In June 1812, Russia defeated Napoleon in the Battle of Borodino on the outskirts of Moscow and the troops had had to retreat. Muscovites, at the time, burned the city down to prevent the French from seizing it. Leo Tolstoy elaborately and beautifully penned this event in his great masterpiece “War and Peace”, as did a few others in English, with titles such as "Borodino 1812" and "1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow" .  The Russian history teacher at school had made sure her classroom reflected the evidence of the event putting up pictures with captions of different battle scenes as well as informative texts. This 200^th anniversary was also a good reason to go out partying, if nothing at all, to pay tribute to all the fallen from both sides.

The commemoration of the battle itself was celebrated with  an elaborate reenactment of the battle in a field outside of Moscow. At the time of this event, I was watching the witch and wizard welcome us back to school. For the first time, it is said, the event was attended by several dignitaries. There was a fair representation of French citizens, and even former President Valery Giscard d’Estaing was among the guests. I admire the stoicism of all the attendees of the event – children and adults alike who braved the rain and cold weather as they took in the fine spectacle, I presume, of a fight between historians, amateurs and fans from both sides, dressed in brightly-colored French and Imperial Russian army uniforms.

No celebration would be complete without the customary accompanying music, and to this effect, military marching bands from different parts of the world had been invited to Russia to show off their skills and entertain us. I had seen the posters around the city advertising these concerts, but uncertainty about availability of time kept me from buying tickets for any of the scheduled concerts which took part in different parks in different parts of the city. The end of each concert culminated in a feast of colors in the dark sky every night, resounding loudly enough to draw people in their homes to their windows.

I’d had my fair share of celebrations with the back to school event after which I had to go home to prepare for the week ahead, so I didn't join the crowds in the jollification of Moscow’s birthday bashes or the revelry at the concerts, but observed these events somewhat more quietly. The Kremlin Palace was hosting a series of ballets I had bought tickets to. It is such a relief to finally get to the venue after being pushed and shoved on the metro, ascending and descending stairs and escalators. It would have been better had they been spaced out over several weeks or months instead of cramming ten ballets into three weeks. However, if I wanted to enjoy them, that would be my only chance, and I was determined to do so since they were so reasonably priced, unlike the extortionate ticket prices at the Bolshoi.

And so it was that I set off to my third ballet in a week yesterday, on a beautiful sunny day; one of the few we get to enjoy occasionally in Moscow. It would have been my fourth, had I not been unwell for the first one which was “Swan Lake”.  I had seen it in other places, but seeing it in Moscow would have made a difference. I’d seen “Figaro” and “Don Quixote” and the same Kremlin Ballet Ensemble was performing “The Nutcracker” yesterday. Unlike the other two occasions when I just walked in a few minute before it started, this time there were throngs of people. It was pleasant to see families and young couples dressed to the nines for the occasion. Groups of Japanese and Chinese tourists were also present for the performance which was every bit as enjoyable as every ballet performance I've seen in Russia – the colorful, elaborate costumes, the graceful, sublime movements, the beautifully choreographed dances, the powerfully soothing music.

I feel fortunate to have the opportunity to see all these wonderful performances and I am impatiently looking forward to seeing “Sleeping Beauty”, “Esmeralda”,” Gisele”, “Le Corsaire” and “A Thousand and One Nights”. I was born too late and in the wrong place to see Alicia Alonso dance “Gisele” – that would have been a treat and a half, but I still get to see it, albeit sans Alicia. Unlike “The Nutcracker” and “Swan Lake” which I’ve seen many times in different places, the others are all a first experience. The icing on the cake, however, is the coming National Gala of the Stars of the Stars of Ballet, where there are short performances of different dances by first dancers and prima ballerinas of different companies.

I saw a similar performance in June at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall which left me speechless. It featured all kinds of dances; traditional dances such as zarzuela, flamenco, contemporary dances choreographed by Nacho Duato, tango, classical ballet and more. It was such a brilliant performance, I was dumbstruck at the possibility of such beauty and grace. The audience couldn’t stop clapping and screaming out “bravo”. The best part of it all was meeting one of the dancers at the Tchaikovsky Café adjacent to the concert hall where we went for a coffee afterwards. He had executed one of my favorite performances which was a tango, as he flipped around a cowboy hat he would wear and toss alternatively as he danced. I nearly screamed as I saw him walk in with the hat in his hand, and it took a lot of self-restraint not to go and ask him for an autograph. I knew that even if I did, I was past the age where such things meant much; seeing him standing next to my table in the flesh was more than enough for me. In the end, I was quite sure he would take the metro at the station two doors down from the Café, Mayakovskaya, back home, just like the other eleven million people in Moscow do everyday, and blend into the crowd.

Still in celebration mode, long after the marching bands have gone back home exhausted, and the remnants of the festivities of the birthday party have been cleared from the different parts of the city, I will still be attending ballets and concerts in Moscow. Fortunately, there are always plenty of those for every palate.

Church-hopping In Moscow

Varvarka Street is described in The Lonely Planet guide as a little street with the greatest concentration of interesting buildings in the area of Kitay Gorod so I was on my way there. I’d always wanted to go on walks in Moscow to discover this amazing city, but I had arrived in January when the temperature never rose above -15 or -20 Celsius. 

Proletarskaya is the closest metro station to my house and is the same place you would get off if you were going to the Novospassky Monastery, a recommended visit, which is just a stone’s throw away from my house as well. I accompanied my friend who was here visiting in the summer and we both experienced the lovely walk to the monastery, in addition to taking part in a church service there; his first experience of a Russian Orthodox church service. 

It was cloudy and drizzling, but warm, after the church service, which had been a wonderful experience and first sight into Russia. The solemnity of the church service and the calmness around enticed us to walk further to explore, so we strolled on to the Swiss Hotel beside the International House of Music for a snack at the Sky Bar, the summit of the highest building in Moscow. It was my second visit there and we were lucky to get a very good seat this time; one from which we could see the Kremlin and surrounding areas very clearly. Unfortunately, we had to leave the night view for another visit, since night practically didn't set in summer. It was a beautiful summer night with no precipitation whatsoever when we left the Sky Bar, which facilitated the last leg of the walk from the Swiss Hotel to Paveletskaya train and metro station -  the metro station was our first museum stop and definitely warrants a visit from anyone spending some time in Moscow.

In that guise, I set off to explore another area in Moscow. My walk today however, was very different. I have lost count of the number of churches I saw, photographed and entered. The question I keep asking is “what was the fate of all these churches from 1917 to 1991?” “And how were they managed to be restored to all their past glory?” Each little church is as grand as, or even grander than, the previous one and there’s no keeping track.  Every time I saw a church, before I even went in, I’d already seen the spires or the cross of another one I was planning to see after I came out of the current one. I didn’t have to look at my map. I just went from one church to another and eventually found Varvarka Street. The buildings are certainly interesting, but not distinct in my opinion, considering that I’d just hopped from one interesting building to another over a distance of about five kilometers.

The first landmark I searched for when I left home was Vorontsovskaya Street. It was just around the corner, however one wrong move put me on Volgogradsky Prospekt, so I immediately back-tracked and set off in the right direction which would take me to Taganskaya Square, where the World War II bunker is located; a big tourist attraction which I’d joined in when I first arrived in Moscow. It was winter and there was a discount. Going down 18 floors to experience an hour in a Soviet Bunker with World War II artifacts was a fun thing to do, but does not rate highly on my list, especially because it is very expensive, about 50 dollars with the half price discount.

As I walked along Vorontsovskaya Street, I realized that there were a lot of fine dining restaurants littered along. I’m not quite sure how good business is because these places are hardly ever full. In any case, it was good to know where to find such a place if the need arose. Taganskaya Square appeared at the end of Vorontsovkaya. I spotted my first church there, partially under repair in an enclosed area with a padlocked gate, so I just took a few pictures of the exterior. No sooner was I done than I saw the golden bulbs of another church and walked in that direction for another perusal. I also saw the bookstore and library for Russians abroad, but couldn’t go in as it was closed. It would have been interesting to discover what went on there as it looked as if exhibitions were held there. It would have to wait for another time.

I walked past an English pub called John Donn, written in Cyrillic letters and onto Radishchev Street named after Alexander Nikolaevich Radishchev, a Soviet hero, writer… you name it, he’d done it all. A nice, little park hosted a tall marble column with a bust of the afore-mentioned hero resting on top - a pleasant discovery I’d say, as it was the plaque which enlightened me about the source of the name for the street. 

As I walked on, I realized that Moscow’s architecture is not confined to the tall, dull, rectangular high-rises that house the apartment buildings most of us live in. The area I was in actually offered a different perspective of stately homes which were now probably apartments or office buildings. The décor was very pleasing to the eye as they resembled buildings you could find in some of the nice, affluent areas of Paris or Rome. Having no knowledge of architecture except what I consider pleasant, it is difficult for me to describe; suffice to say that, for once we are spared the ever-ubiquitous Greek neoclassical style that most Russian official buildings sport – the columns, the capitels, the pillars, all reminiscent of the Parthenon and such structures.

I spoke too soon, as one of Stalin’s Seven Sisters, which is now the Radisson Hotel I presumed, loomed into my view. So much for the newly-found, refreshing feeling of a breath of distinctive architecture! 

But again, Moscow is generous with its architecture and offers something for everyone’s taste. Just as I turned the corner I came across the Museum of Russian Icons opposite a monastery with thick walls and a gate as is customary of the monasteries I’ve seen here. I made a note to myself to visit the museum another day, since I didn’t know about it, and headed to the monastery. This monastery on Goncharnaya Street, unfortunately, had strict, unbendable rooms – ‘women in pants, short skirts and no headscarf were strictly forbidden from entering’. I had to put the monastery as well on my list for later, together with the Icon Museum as my attire, as conservative as it seemed to me, was not conservative enough to be granted entry.

I left the monastery and the building I presumed to be the Radisson on my left, crossed the bridge over the other river in Moscow, the smaller Yauza, and went to a park called “The Yauza Gates”, which hosted an obelisk with a golden, two-headed eagle, the well-known Romanov symbol on top, and where Moscovites were lazily stretched out on the grass, in the shade under the trees. The benches around the monument were occupied mostly by senior citizens in light, colorful summer clothes. At the far end stood a group of young men in military fatigues - I had to resist the urge to approach them and ask whether their business in the park was to protect the frail-looking, senior citizens on the benches. Instead, I just did my little tour of the park, enjoyed the view of a tall belfry visible beyond the obelisk and continued on my mission. As I left the park, I was faced with the pastel blue belfry, the top of which I had spotted earlier, and another church which I walked past. Just further down there was another church under restoration. I paid my respects and walked on. As I was headed on my way, although I was clearly sporting tourist gear, I was approached by a lady and her companion collecting signatures for a petition against abortion. I smiled at them, shook my head and politely declined, preferring to keep my opinion to myself and walked on.

I was going to cross into Solyanka street as I’d planned when I’d looked at the map, but two big golden bulbs caught my eye, different from the ones I’d chosen to ignore, and I decided to make a detour. This was the Peter and Paul Church dating from 1700 as the plaque stated. Just as I made my entrance into the little alley from which you entered the church, I was greeted by a black cat that I took a picture of and then went in. The plaque on the wall commemorated the architects who’d done the deed. I would have commemorated it too. The church is built on a promontory only discernible once on the premises. Once you go up the steps, you come face to face with a marble gazebo and statues of the Madonna in the garden around the church. The vast view from the church is spectacular as it overlooks other roofs, balconies, parks, gardens and the famous Stalin building. The interior lived up to the exterior, if not more. I would have been highly impressed if I hadn’t already seen such opulence in palaces and churches all over Russia. It is certainly worth a visit, as it was clearly worth the small detour.

I headed back the way I came to the Peter and Paul church, admiring the architecture I never tired of, and finally crossed into Solyanka Street, my initial route, but not before I’d passed a couple of stretch limos – a QX56 and a Hummer. The wedding party had just come out onto the street and the groom was eagerly displaying his impatience to get on with married life, as the guests looked, laughed and cheered him on, especially the men. I did not make eye contact as I passed them so I cannot describe any of the guests, nor the wedding couple. Another party was going on in one of the limos which I saw through the open doors. They had probably been married at the Peter and Paul church, and I was too late to witness it.  I walked on along Solyanka to Slavyanskaya Square where the Kitay Gorod metro station is. I made a note of where to come back to. All that walking and only two metro stops! To the left of Slavyanskaya Square is Varvarka Street, finally, or so I thought at the time!

Together with different groups of Spanish and Italian tourists fervently reading from their guide books, I did justice to the little street with an interesting collection of buildings – churches that I didn’t go into, but photographed from the outside. There were also some very interesting views of the city from that point. Just beyond Gostiny Dvor -the Old Merchants’ Court -, was St Basil’s Church where I’d been just about a week ago. I'd finally accomplished my goal – to walk from my house to the Kremlin. It is taxing, but totally worth it, since you are rewarded with beautiful, interesting sights along the way. Having checked that off my list, I started walking back to the Kitay Gorod metro station.

As I headed towards there, I noticed a familiar building and realized that I’d seen it next to Biblio-Globus, my favorite bookstore in Moscow, meaning I was close by. I chose to leave Ilyinskiy Square and the park and monuments till after I paid a visit to the bookstore. I’d planned to go for some books I needed for the current classes I’m teaching and thought then was as good a time as any, so off I went. It wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected it to be on a Saturday. Most of the clients had probably gone away for the summer or to their dachas outside Moscow. 

It was certainly pleasant to walk around. I found some of the things I needed but chose to go back for them the next day. I managed to contain myself in Biblio-Globus very proudly. I walked back out onto the street not having purchased anything. I went past Lubyanka Square and the former KGB building, towards the Polytechnical Museum I’d left behind. That would also have to wait, probably for winter.

l admired and photographed that museum and many others, including the Russian Orthodox University with the usual Greek neo-classical façade. 

Just then, I saw a bookstore I decided to look into – the old-fashioned kind of quaint bookstores you stumble upon while walking along indiscriminate streets in European cities.  It was small, but well-stocked with no space to spare. Books which couldn't fit on the shelves were stacked unceremoniously on chairs and tables, and although it catered generally for Russian-speaking clientele, there was a small section with a few books in English. Nothing in that section caught my interest, especially considering that I had chosen not to continue reading “The Amber Room” by Steve Berry - I did not want to invest time in reading any more thrillers with gratuitous violence and unsophisticated language. I had enjoyed his other book, "The Romanov Prophecy", but that is where it stopped for me.

I saw a book by a Russian author I was interested in reading so I allowed myself this little treat.

I finally retraced my steps to the park. At the base of the first monument - a cone-like structure with lots of reliefs of heroes and the Orthodox cross on top - a few police officers were busy with a presumed culprit sporting a bandaged elbow, muttering in slurred speech, incapable of holding himself upright. May be a bit too much of the easily accessible, cheap vodka, or beer? Or maybe he was genuinely in distress.  I chose not to engage in photographing the monument as it would be difficult to avoid their presence and walked to the next one. According to the plaque, this square, Ilyinsky Square is one of the first of its kind in Moscow, created in 1887. It is the usual small neighborhood park in the middle of several surrounding buildings and streets, equipped with benches and a monument to provide some greenery for the neighborhood dwellers. It breaks the monotony of hard concrete, provides shade in the summer as well as oxygen, I presume.

Ilyinksy Square was my last tourist stop today. After that, I headed to the Kitay Gorod metro station in the same square, rode the train for two stops and walked home. After I’d taken my shoes off when I got inside, I wondered what had possessed me to inflict this punishment on myself, but immediately discarded the idea and answered my own question. It was no punishment; I hardly noticed the distance nor, felt any discomfort as I was walking. It was sheer joy to just be led from one beautiful building to another through the sheer sense of sight and to finally end up at Red Square. It was a great outing, and to think I almost stayed behind because it looked like rain. Instead I decided to face the rain and was rewarded with the most spectacular architectural meal Moscow could offer on a beautiful summer day.

The not-so Ritzy Carlton

For anyone with an insatiable appetite of any kind, whether literary, artistic, cultural or culinary, you can be sure to get your fill in Moscow. On the agenda this weekend was a drink at the O2 Lounge and bar at the Ritz-Carlton in Tverskaya Street, for its incomparable panoramic view of Red Square, the Kremlin and surrounding areas as described in several guide books.

We walked through the door opened by the valet into the lobby like we owned the place. A visual sweep offered the sight of a lounge adorned in red and gold – regal colors – as befits a place of its caliber. On display were also the ubiquitous marble columns and gold and black capitels omnipresent in Russian architecture, plush seats with a few scattered guests surrounded by antique figurines. We didn’t linger around to see what they were consuming or hear what they were talking about. I found it strange that no one came to offer any assistance after the valet had let us in. On a mission, we went up the east staircase to the upper lobby to see if there would be an indication of our destination. There was none.

I approached a young lady in a skirt suit, walking in our direction but with no intention of communicating with us, to ask for directions to the lounge. She kindly and efficiently informed us it was on the 11^th floor. We thanked her and set off in the direction of the elevators. One answered our call request and we joined a couple, obviously staying there, to our much-desired destination anticipating a sip of something we knew would create a significant hole in our wallets, as well as to partake in the joy of experiencing the much-revered and talked-about view.

The elevator however, had a mind of its own and would not accept our request to be lifted to the 11^th floor. The gentleman got the lift to accept his request. He had the secret – the electronic key to their room, and advised us to use ours. Well, we had just come for the above-mentioned purpose after which we would return to our modest digs in the south of Moscow. We explained that we were just going to the bar, and with no such open-sesame device; it was quite clear we weren’t staying there. He then went on to inform us that the bar was on the 12^th floor, not the 11th, which got me wondering about the lady in her suit with a pile of papers under her arm, who obviously looked like she worked there as she came out of a door with a gilded label on it, most likely for staff only.

We civilly exchanged goodbyes as the couple got off and we continued ascending. Finally we exited on the 12^th floor and were immediately approached by a lady who addressed us in English. She must have seen us on a screen somewhere as she literally just appeared as we were walking out of the elevator. She offered to assist us and we made our request. She subsequently offered us the only two seats available, unfortunately not overlooking the much sought view we were after.  I chose the sofa as she called it, and realized as we were led there that a canopied couch would have been a better description. Our view was that of the Bolshoi and a few other not very significant buildings. Oh, well…

Another visual sweep of our surroundings transported me to the rooftop bar and lounge at the Yas Hotel in Abu Dhabi where I’d stayed when I went to see Shakira perform at the Yas Island Arena. The layout may have been slightly different, but the furniture was exactly the same – it must be mass-produced these days. The lack of exclusivity and the feeling of déjà-vu in a place of supposedly such high standards were a bit of a let-down, nevertheless, I hoped the evening would get better after we’d been there for a while.

A few interminable minutes after we’d been seated, we were approached by a young waiter and offered a drinks menu. The prices were as I expected. I ordered a glass of red wine and have forgotten what my friend ordered – a cocktail of some sort, may be. To accompany our drinks we were served wheat-based snacks which my food allergies prevented me from eating, therefore, I kindly requested nuts. The linguistic barrier, my only guess, made my request slightly difficult to process: “peanuts, walnuts, cashew nuts?” I further elaborated. Finally, I was told very irreverently that they had run out. "AT THE RITZ!!!", I nearly screamed. 

An Emirates Palace moment in Abu Dhabi flashed in my mind, when I was told at a seven-star hotel that I could not order an omelet because it wasn’t on the menu as it was outside breakfast hours.

Back to the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow though, so as to be on task here. I expressed my disbelief to the waiter and he just apologized again, in as much politeness as his attitude allowed him. I reiterated my request which I felt I was entitled to in such a place, and for what I’d pay for a drink. Our waiter then offered to find out if another bar on some other floor would have it, but made sure beforehand that I was aware of the fact that it would be very unlikely. It all seemed very unprofessional, this lack of will to be as accommodating as is required in a high end hotel. It is the first bar I have ever been to in my life where they had run out of nuts – running the spectrum from the hole in the wall to the Ritz-Carlton. My conclusion was that nuts were probably too cheap to be offered at a place like the Ritz. 

Another funny incident flashed through my mind. I remembered a comment one of my students made in Abu Dhabi when I was working there. In response to my Emirates Palace experience, he said, “Miss, you should have ordered something more expensive and more special, more exclusive. An omelet is too cheap and too common.” However, I'm sure if I’d ordered an omelet made of South African ostrich eggs of a specific date, at a particular temperature with fresh Iranian caviar, the response would have been the same; just as if I’d ordered a gluten-free version of what we'd been served.

I was still optimistic that my experience would improve to make the evening slightly more pleasant and memorable. I missed the rooftop bar and restaurant at the Swiss Hotel dearly, where nuts of all kinds as well as snacks were available, not to mention as many times as I asked for a refill and chose and picked what I wanted, sending back what I didn’t. The affable waiters kindly honored my request with a smile and I happily showed my gratitude after we footed the bill.

But let’s get back to the Ritz in Moscow. If my mind is wandering more than I am enjoying this place, it clearly implies that I wished I were somewhere else. And so it happened that I sipped my red wine, which I must say I had no complaints about, albeit sans snacks. It got a bit chilly and I was glad we had the canopy and a blanket under which I retreated warmly while we chatted, and later went for a walk around to look at the view. The alcohol, the chat, not to mention the complaints, had opened up an appetite, so we asked for a meal menu after our tour. When it finally arrived, we took one strained look at it in the dim lights and both burst out laughing. Suffice to say that we were not in the least interested in paying those prices for that kind of service, and as much as I understand that the Ritz has a name to live up to and prices to charge accordingly, I thought it would make more sense for me to have that culinary experience somewhere else.

After our last sip, we took a last tour around the rooftop, managed to see the view again, and I totally concur with the guide book writer – it is spectacular. As we did so, we walked past the remnants of a dinner party. The drinks glasses and bottles for a party of 12 or so still lingered; several bottles of Moet still chilling on ice, different brands of beer, vodka, numerous bottles of other kinds of spirits heavily weighing down a wheel-around tray and more. I wondered what they were waiting for to clear it all up, and once again I saw myself questioning the service at that place. 

We took pictures to commemorate the moment and finally walked past a popcorn stand on our way out, which I assumed would be the most expensive popcorn in Moscow. We walked through the indoor bar with egg-shaped, swivel seats, beautifully embroidered in red and gold, arranged in twos around low, round coffee tables, lined up against the glass wall overlooking the terrace we'd just left. They were set out for more romantic, intimate meetings. We sat in them and took turns taking pictures. 

The final stop before the heading back down in the elevator was the rest room which I gave, 9 out of 10 just because they didn't have the likes of Molten Brown or Jo Malone hand lotion. Everything else was pleasantly in place, unlike the refreshment experience. Back out on the warm street through the door opened once more by the valet, we felt our experience warranted a metro ride back home than in one of the three limos waiting outside.  

I’m glad I had the experience and feel fortunate that to have seen enough to make comparisons, but my favorite is still the Sky Bar at the Swiss Hotel in Moscow, until I go somewhere else than can top it.

Knowledge Day in Russia

Knowledge Day in Russia

It was a cold, dry, Saturday morning in as I walked to work to join my-fellow teachers, returning as well as new students in celebrating “back to school”, Knowledge Day and the first day of fall. Fortunately, the clouds in Moscow had spent the last several days, which had run into weeks emptying their contents onto us everywhere in the city and cleaning out the pollution, which I am grateful for, although that had turned August into the beginning of fall instead of the last days of summer. As such, they had no more moisture left to soak us with, and I could enjoy keeping my hands in my pockets as I walked, instead of hoisting an umbrella for about half an hour.

The only other event I had ever celebrated on September 1^st was my friend Grace’s birthday. Knowledge Day was a new celebration for me, and although we’d been briefed about coming to school on September 1^st as is the tradition in Russia, regardless of the day of the week it fell on, nothing had prepared me for the elaborate celebration I was to witness. I noticed the presence of several teenagers in the streets on my way to work, which had not been the case in the last six weeks that I had been travelling along the same route at the same time. We shared the same purpose I thought, albeit on our way to different destinations.

As I approached the school gate, I saw a couple with travelling suitcases loitering around. It seemed rather unusual since they looked lost and were arguing about something. I wondered why the guards at the school weren't out to ask what their business was, but just minded my own and walked in. As security clicked me in, I saw the lady had finally taken out a phone and was looking frantically for a number, I presumed, as I left them out there. I shut the gate behind me, greeted the guards and duly filled my name in on the sign-in sheet. They were all smiles and wished me a Happy Knowledge Day and I did the same. Those were the first September 1^st wishes I’d ever experienced.

I had arrived early so the school was quiet when I walked in to get ahead with lesson preparation for the first week of school, and was greeted by beautiful, medium-sized balloons in the school colors - sky blue and white. They’d been adorning the main entrance of the school building probably from the previous night, hung below the rectangular sign board bearing the name of the school in Russian and English. The balloons brightened my mood as I anticipated the forthcoming celebration.

After working for about an hour in my classroom, I started to hear different footsteps in the hallways, louder than usual. It was coming, I realized from the high heels the teachers had chosen to wear today. I noticed that all the Russian teachers were dressed up elegantly. My brown dress pants, sweater, and Aigner moccasins, however formal and appropriate for work, paled in comparison with their colorful dresses and scarves, broaches and other accessories. Everyone was smiling and “C Prazdnikom” was uttered repeatedly as people passed one another. Laughter could be heard from the teachers all over the school. This was nothing like back to school in any of the countries where I’d taught. The students would arrive, go to their assigned classes and on most occasions, the first topic on the agenda before any book was cracked open and lessons began, was the classroom behavior contract and seating plan. That was read, discussed, negotiated and signed by all. Once that was done, we would get down to business and face what was in store for us till June. I appreciated this first day for students to get the chit-chat about their holidays out of the way, instead of spending the first few lessons at school discussing this, as is usually the case when a teacher is trying hard to focus on a lesson and meet the objectives.

Outside in the school yard, the students were arriving successively and gathering in small groups expressing, through a variety of paralinguistic communicative forms, their joy to meet again - hugging each other, shaking hands, slapping one another on the back, and happily sharing news about things that mattered to them. Traditional celebratory Russian music could be heard in the background and old acquaintances, both young and not so young, conversed cheerfully, while the new students approached their teachers timidly and tried to establish a relationship. A few shy, new students from upper and lower secondary stood with their parents, all awaiting the welcome address from the principal who would formally welcome them either for the first time, or welcome them back to school and declare the new academic year open.

Before the formal address however, we were entertained by a witch and a wizard who were no other than the couple I’d seen outside struggling with their travel cases, which must have contained their working gear. They had finally succeeded in contacting their employer to let them in to perform their show. They had changed from their casual attire and were both draped in black gowns. The witch wore a typical witch’s hat in black and red and the wizard wore a bowler hat of a different color depending on which trick he was playing. The witch and wizard, now made popular by the Harry Potter series I would like to think, are the alternative to the clowns of yore who usually entertained children at parties or circuses.

They were quite entertaining and the young children enjoyed it. I can’t say the same for the older children who felt too cool to laugh, or the adults around either. Excited parents wielded their cameras, video cameras and sophisticated phones, moving around to secure the best position, duly capturing the moment of their children’s first day at school, especially the kindergartners and first graders. Several little girls were sporting the traditional white pompoms for special school occasions in their pigtails, minus the French-maid outfit which I remember from my childhood. The little boys looked very elegant in their suits as they flashed their little teeth in excitement. Several teachers were heavily laden with several, colorful bouquets, and not only the women, but the men as well as we all watched on, warmly dressed for the low morning temperature.

The wizard juggled, extracted several footballs from under his black robe, drew several small colorful umbrellas from one big black one, while the witch danced around with her broom in her blood red boots and enticed the children to join her. Some of the students were scared, or possibly pretended to be, refusing to join in to help the wizard with his tricks. They did, however, finally succeed in getting some volunteers to join the wizard on stage, which was the doorstep, to perform a few more tricks, one of which was pulling on a magic rope for tug-of-war. By then, the show had been going on for a while and I was getting cold so I chose to go indoors and was followed by a few others who felt the same. At the end of the show, the principal made his speech, everyone cheered and clapped, the students gravitated towards their class teachers wielding signs to be recognized and followed them to their respective classrooms.

Once settled, the students were introduced to their teachers, given a snack and sent home shortly afterwards. Then it was the teachers’ turn to celebrate.  We were invited to the dining room for a snack and the opportunity to acquaint ourselves with everybody else, especially to meet the Russian teachers who we do not generally work with and seldom interact with. We sat in a circle and went around the table introducing ourselves. As each teacher introduced him or herself, the others were asked to write a well-wishing note for him or her and all the notes were collected, placed in an envelope and handed to the person. After we’d all done the task and acquainted ourselves with one another, we were free to partake in the treats that had been laid down for us – juice, pizza, and fruit. I did justice to the grapes, but left everything else alone.

The end of the meal brought the day to an end for all of us. We’d met our students, made new acquaintances and wished one another all the best for the coming school year. That is what essentially constitutes the back to school ceremony. At least that is what was done in my school. I will hopefully have the chance to talk to people from other schools to see if there are major differences between their celebrations and ours. As I left the building after the celebration and a few more hours of work, I saw the balloons still hanging where they had been when I came in. They were the only remnants of the festive day at the school. It was ominously quiet and no more voices will be heard till Monday morning when we all come in ready to teach and learn, set our goals and look forward to the first school break to go on a trip somewhere to get away from it all for a while.